Paradise Circus
by sailorbutts
Summary: In any other situation, she would have let their fingers brush, their eyes meet; she would have let herself love Anna, if only she were normal. For Anna's part... well, she doesn't really know what love is. Modern AU in which Elsa is Anna's make-up artist, Elsanna (not incest).
1. You can seem as old as your omens

**A/N:** Hello and welcome to yet another modern AU! What you are about to read will mostly be Elsanna-centric (though not as siblings/incest), and it will be set in London (whoop whoop). Future chapters may contain some fairly dark themes and I shall warn as appropriate. For now anticipate bad language and angst.

* * *

Elsa catches a glimpse of her own hand – all long, bony fingers with tawny powdered tips – then looks away quickly and orders it to stop trembling. She takes hold of a thin brush with barely concealed difficulty, then grips it as firmly as she can and furrows her brow in a valiant attempt to focus. Avoiding skin-on-skin contact, she leans in towards her client as far as is necessary to maintain the quality of her work, but no further. Then, stemming from the collage of bright, warm greens and golds and glimmering sequins about the eyes, she furnishes the thin white trunk of a young aspen, already sketched across the girl's temple, with bundles of bright orange leaves. Taking a deep breath, Elsa flecks the tips of the girl's lashes with orange paint that licks like little flames, and pulls away.

Anna's eyes flutter open in that momentary daze that Elsa has witnessed many a time, caused by the realisation that if she looks in the mirror now she will be met by an entirely different creature. There aren't enough dressing tables in this humid little backstage cave for girls like her to have one of their own, so Elsa, still on her knees before her, holds a hand mirror.

"Oh, _Elsa_," she says, gasping softly at first, then sighing dreamily, "you've made me look beautiful!"

Despite herself, Elsa frowns at this choice of words.

"You _are_ beautiful," she returns matter-of-factly. There is a silence, during which Anna blushes beneath her face paint, and it dawns slowly on Elsa that those words actually escaped her heart to leap from her throat. There is nothing but affection and gratitude in those blue-green eyes, all aimed at her, neither of which she deserves, and somehow it makes her feel several degrees colder. She scrambles hastily to her feet.

"I should go help the raindrops," she murmurs, fiddling with a brush and several bluish shades of eye shadow. Lamely, she adds, "You'll be great out there. Probably better than Aurora."

Anna laughs, though Elsa detects an undertone of nervousness. "Careful, Elsa. You don't want to be responsible for any evil schemes by the understudy to outshine the lead."

Elsa pauses, aware that remaining adamant about her brilliance will only cause Anna further discomfort. She smiles weakly and turns to help the raindrops, as promised.

But later – watching as she twirls her solo into being with arms ardent and sure, her features as sweet and emotive as the half-god creature she portrays – Elsa finds herself unable to understand how no one else sees what she sees in Anna. Somewhere in front of the stage, out of her field of vision, an unhappy harpy chides the poor girl for her disregard for calculation and timing; Elsa tenses, almost as though she is the one receiving this reprimand. Her fingers fumble between red curtain folds, trying to better her offstage view. At this point, a lofty red-haired figure in tights, whose cheeks wield – so help her God – a pair of sharp, well-groomed sideburns (that the dancers behind her seem to find _ridiculously_ sexy) slithers onstage. Admittedly, Hans – Anna's partner in this scene – has a subtle yet lithe physique that renders him a perfect performer, but that is all he is to Elsa – a performer – while Anna is an _artist_. Elsa is the only one who feels this way though, and she also happens to be a lovesick puppy; as such, she can only watch grudgingly as, down below, the expert performers sing the performer's praises.

"Oh God," Anna rasps at the end of the sequence, jogging offstage, "oh wow." Her bright hair is slightly dishevelled, her eyes tired but glowing with the aftermath of exhilaration. The redness of physical exertion is not quite visible through her face paint, but still brightens her countenance and pronounces the adorable smattering of freckles on her cheeks. Elsa swallows, handing her a small towel which even in her exhaustion she takes politely and thankfully.

The show they're putting on is completely new. A young dryad – played by an accomplished ballet star called Briar Rose who, hating her name, prefers to be called Aurora – is the guardian of a forest of aspens. She is beautiful and loves her home, but there are no other forests nearby, nor fields of flowers, nor streams or rivers, and no fellow nymphs for her to befriend. She passes life with nothing but an ever-present melancholy by her side, until one morning she meets a rabble of butterflies beneath the forest canopy (in dance, her arms) who put on for her a dazzling display of colour. The dance is short, and the young dryad is soon met by sadness once again, when suddenly it begins to rain; the droplets dance slowly, caressing branches and leaves and tending to her like a princess. When the clouds part and the rain ceases, she once again laments the transience of friendship, when a ray of light interrupts, and the sun itself – played by the also renowned Phillip Shirley – descends from the sky to meet her. They enjoy a light, bright dance in which the happily evaporating raindrops and rainbow-like insects return, flitting around for a long, long time and slowing as the sun begins to set. The forest nymph then tries to prevent the inevitable end to their joy, but the sun escapes her grasp, encouraging her to be resigned to the ebb and flow of the world around her. Stricken by despair, she dances in darkness, and hardly notices as the moon makes to embrace her and the stars appear to light her path. When she recognises these friends, she waltzes with the moon – played again by Phillip in order to facilitate the parallel between light and darkness, hope and despair, and so on – and finally realises that those we love must sometimes go but will always return, and she is never truly alone.

Anna is Aurora's understudy and Hans is Phillip's, neither of them particularly prominent or experienced in their trade. For Elsa's part, the show is a work of visual art, ripe with intricate set changes, innovative costumes and stunning face paint (the latter of which, of course, is her speciality). While most professional dancers are expected to do their own make-up between sets, the meticulousness of design that she was hired to translate into colour and life requires exactly that – a translator. And it's a miracle for the almost twenty-two year old, whose situation may have made employment otherwise impossible to come by.

At least, it _had_ seemed a miracle at first, until she found herself falling in love with the sweet, effusive redhead from the ensemble who always told her how beautifully she worked and how humble she was, and stayed with her to talk and pack away, and never seemed to notice that she didn't want to talk about herself but was always so earnest about wanting to be friends that Elsa could never find it irritating.

"I can't believe I got to dance with Hans. I mean, I can't believe I_ get_ to dance with Hans. Like, _every day_. God, he's so hot. I mean, that's not the only reason – I mean he's obviously really talented and wonderful and – other things – oh my god I sound so shallow, but – ugh. _So_ hot."

No, Anna would never be irritating, but she could certainly snap Elsa's heart in two as easily as she could break a Kit Kat.

"Yeah," is all Elsa can manage. She sighs, playing it off as simple exasperation at Anna's obsession as she follows the laughing nymph into the hot, wild frenzy of the ensemble's backstage area. Another dancer starts talking to her and Elsa turns around to fish for some wipes and cotton balls and other necessary materials to undo the work of the day. Jesus, it's just so hot and cramped in here and there are so many people and she really wants to get out and get away from all this – all_ this_ – and in her distracted state, she does not feel a small bottle of antiseptic spill onto an area of chafed skin on her knuckle until it stings more recognisably than her ignominious heartache. She hisses quietly, then bites her lip to silence herself and shakily screws the lid back on.

"Hey Elsa," says Anna, sounding hopeful as Elsa turns back to her, "Everyone's going out for drinks in a bit, do you want to come?"

Elsa loathes to think of Anna's disappointment, but she knows what she has to say. It's for her, whether she knows it or not.

"I'm sorry, Anna," she says, hoping she sounds as regretful as she truly is, "I've got some stuff to do. Maybe another time?"

And Anna looks slightly deflated but shrugs her shoulders as if to shake away the feeling. Elsa absolutely _hates_ herself.

So after taking another terrible stance of abnegation, avoiding Anna's gaze and wiping her make-up off as quickly and precisely as possible, Elsa decides to go for a walk. On her way out, the blonde can't help but pause before a full-length mirror in the hallway; she looks her lanky form up and down, making a distasteful evaluation of everything from her rolled-up sleeves and mottled flannel to the overly business-like arrangement of her hair and the dark half-moons that cradle her tired eyes. Frowning, she pulls on her coat and ventures into a bustling, bright cold evening.

After more than an hour of stalking aimlessly from station to station, Elsa dully acknowledges the throbbing of her toes and eases herself onto a bench overlooking the Thames, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her cheek upon them. Even at night, Embankment seems to suffer no losses of tourism, of men and women and children fingering the scarred back of the obelisk, gazing in wonder at the grand old monuments downstream, delighting at the low grunt of the clock tower beyond the bridges. A gentle gale ghosts over the water, sending softly bobbing boats and sharp lights shivering, and Elsa sinks further into her jacket. She fumbles through her pocket for a box, through the box for a cigarette, then through her other pocket for a lighter, setting the thing to burn and fitting it between her lips. Elsa looks up to a starless sky, and breathes; the moments pass quietly and her thoughts become marginally less weighty. Shortly thereafter, her trembling hand returns to her pocket, from which she withdraws a dwindling supply of medication, and swallows two tablets dry. In the midst of all this she coughs throatily, hugging her legs closer; she feels like shit, but even so, it's preferable to the alternative.

Tomorrow, Elsa thinks, closing her eyes – just make it to tomorrow.

* * *

Anna watches as the snow white skin above Elsa's thick teal jumper disappears slowly beneath her coat. The older girl takes her time pulling on the long, beige piece of clothing, complete with epaulettes and princess sleeves, buttoning up the double breasted torso – why is it taking so long? Anna wonders but doesn't complain – and knotting the belt about her waist with a fashionable flourish that renders the leather buckle on the end useless. Together with the braid that must have been set up with considerable intricacy, beginning across her forehead and curling into a bun at the back, Elsa is the picture of sophisticated grace, sporting the full-on London look. Anna grins fondly when she remembers that Elsa thinks herself about as classy as a drunken Scotsman, then sighs at it; if only she could do something to stop the blonde from doing – well, exactly as she's doing now, shifting under her gaze, moving her head only millimeters and trying to avoid eye contact. If only they could be_ friends_. What is she doing wrong?

Anna jams her hands into the pockets of her own coat, a simple cherry toggle puffer – what can she say? Everyone in this goddamn country owns _something_ from Superdry – and wanders out for her afternoon break, gym bag in tow. Despite being hungry enough to eat a horse and likely in need of a full, healthy meal, Anna can't help but crave a hot chocolate – hazelnut, orange, or peppermint? The weight of the decision is too immense – and a big, fat piece of chocolate cake. The thought distracts her sufficiently from her previous reverie, such as she hardly notices herself crashing into something large, soft and handsome.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I wasn't – l-looking where I..."

She finds herself at a loss for words as quickly as she recognises the gorgeous, fresh-faced hunk that she has, well, sandwiched between her body and the back of a telephone box. Anna pulls away frantically, only to resemble a fish out of water as she smacks into someone else, then another, before Hans laughs musically and grabs her shoulders – which consequently turn to jelly – in an attempt to steady her that rather seems to anaesthetise her instead.

"Woah there," he says, grinning, "I'm guessing you haven't had tea yet."

Laughing nervously, she blurts, "You don't have to say that – I mean, not that I think you shouldn't have said that – I mean, that was just me! This is awkward – I mean, not you, you're not awkward, that was just me – I'm awkward, you're gorgeous – wait, what?"

Anna would do _anything_ to die right now. Her face is on fire, and only grows hotter with the remembrance that the more violently she blushes the more accurately her head resembles a tomato. Hans does her a small mercy and removes his hands.

"I detect a low blood sugar," he reiterates, clearly amused, "which is a problem I'd be more than happy to solve. Would you like to get something to eat with me?"

Smooth bastard. "Yes," she manages, taking a deep breath, "I'd love to."

And for the rest of the afternoon she can't help but wonder if she's in heaven. The two of them find a small teahouse across the Apollo, run by a jovial (if extortionate) German fellow named Oaken; Anna throws caution to the wind and orders a hefty chocolate elixir adorned with a tall whipped cream spiral and a fistful of marshmellows – Oaken calls it the "North Mountain" – alongside the prettiest slice of chocolate torte, topped with double cream and raspberries. Hans coaxes her into sharing a fresh bratwurst hot dog first – "I can see you love dessert more than life, but we've got to get some protein in you too" – and this gesture further convinces her to sacrifice the better half of her chocolatey treats to him in return. Their location across the greenified theatre prompts them into conversation about their mutual love for all things Wicked and all things West End, and eventually descends into their motivations for entrance into theatre; they pass an hour in bliss and Anna thinks she must be in love.

On their way back for evening rehearsals – during which she'll get to dance in his arms, if the mere thought of it doesn't kill her first – Hans slips his hand shyly into hers, stopping her heart when he stops her in the doorway.

"I had a really great time with you, Anna... I'd love it if we could do something like this again."

And Anna struggles for words, running her fingers through her hair, "M-me too. But I'm kind of surprised... you could literally have any girl here, and I'm just – just me."

Hans looks astounded. He squeezes her palm gently. "_Just_ you?"

And as she takes her coat off, throwing it gleefully onto a peg and bouncing through the corridors, Anna laughs. She laughs because she's just –

"... pathetic, really. Stupid ginge, struttin' around wavin' 'er ugly freckled mug in other people's faces... she's just so _desperate_ for attention, y'know?"

"Yeah. And she don't know 'er fuckin' place neither. Bet she thinks she can outdo Aurora – don't give a flyin' fuck what the_ professionals_ think, and they don't think she's much."

"You should've gotten understudy, Ursula, you're a _far_ stronger presence on stage."

"Fuck that, dearie, I should've gotten _lead_. I suppose at the end of the day that's all she is, anyway – just the spare."

The group erupts in laughter and Anna swallows, but her throat is dry. Her stomach is full of moths, flapping at dust, making her sick.

"Whether or not she's the spare, Anna is more than you'll ever be, Ursula – you're not even second best. None of you are."

And the moths turn to butterflies, fluttering softly while the air in her lungs begins to clear. Elsa.

"Look, I'm sorry – that was harsh – but all of you are way out of line. I don't know if you're bitter, or jealous, or whatever, but you don't have a right to talk like that about _anyone_, let alone Anna, alright? If I hear anything of the sort again, rest assured... your employers will know."

For a moment, Anna forgets how to breathe. Just the thought that someone _has her back_ – that, for the first time in forever, someone has just supported her without expecting anything in return – blows her away. When Elsa turns her into a dryad again, Anna is speechless; she notices her friend's brow (oh god, are they friends now? Isn't that the kind of thing a friend would do? But Elsa's always blown her off till now, and she – she was certain she'd been doing something wrong) is weighed down by concentration and the remnants of an anger that Anna heard her express only moments before. Jesus, every time she _thinks_ about it she gets all warm and fuzzy inside, it's _terrible_. It's all she can think about in rehearsals, and afterwards, when Elsa brings a cotton ball and a fresh, clean sensation to her skin, Anna is almost completely lost to the feeling. She watches the other girl drag her wrist across her own cheekbone in an attempt to wipe away some paint, but she only smudges it further and gives up with an exasperated crinkle of her nose. Anna smiles wholeheartedly, and her fingers, having developed a mind of their own, find Elsa's cheek – but upon the second of contact she jerks away, her pale blue eyes widening in – what is that? Fear? Not friends, then... Anna feels herself deflating.

"Do you have any plans for dinner?" she blurts. Immediately she wants to slap herself; she's losing air faster and faster by the second.

"I'm sorry, Anna..."

It's quiet, and she quickly becomes too tired to hear the rest of it. The rest of the night passes dully and with anguish; Hans walks her home with an arm around her waist.


	2. I may be paranoid, but not an android

**A/N: **So the morning after I published the first chapter of this I woke up to twenty-five emails, all reviews/faves/follows. I can safely say that's never happened to me before, so thank you all a ton! School's back on tomorrow so unfortunately my updates are likely to be infrequent from now on, but I'll aim for every one to two weeks. I'm having a lot of fun writing this and can't wait to see where it goes!

* * *

A few more days, at best. There is a dread seeps into Elsa's bones but, more than that, a dark, numb sort of relief that thrums beneath her skin, tickling at her every inch. It's temptation; a feeling that she recognises, an edge over which she tried to leap a long time ago, before she was selfishly saved, dragged back in shackles. This time she will slip over it slowly, disappear without a trace. For saved, surely, is the wrong word – if she had truly been _saved_, she wouldn't still be damned.

The blonde pulls her coat in closer, her arms wrapping around her own torso. The cold doesn't bother her, the motion is purely an idiosyncrasy, as old as... well, as old as she is. Her bony fingers curl around wispy arms as if to keep them in place, make sure they're still solid; then, suddenly, she remembers her wallet, gropes about for it in her handbag, and speed-walks back into the theatre, too sickly to run.

She catches a glimpse of Hans stalking out of the building and jerks her gaze away, looking, as ever, to the ground. It's not like she'd ever entertained the thought of her-and-Anna, but the thought of Hans-and-Anna makes the hair on the back of her neck bristle, the palms of her hands (usually dry and cold) slick with perspiration. It shouldn't. Where she's pathetic, he's strong, healthy, and pleasant; where she makes Anna look dazed or melancholy, he makes her smile and blush. He's got his whole life, his whole career ahead of him; she may as well be dead already.

"Elsa," calls a gentle voice, like something out of an old film, "Why are you going back inside?"

Slowly, reluctantly, the make-up artist lifts her head. Aurora really _is_ like something out of an old film; tall, elegant, with a beautiful head of thick golden waves that shimmer as they fall and a disposition so gentle Elsa can swear she hears birds when she's near. The other girl is classy as hell, too; though simple, her black headband, pink jumper and grey skirt all look astoundingly pristine. She has all the charm of a Chelsea girl with none of the bitch – it's too good to be true, really.

"I forgot my wallet in the dressing room," Elsa explains. She doesn't murmur, but her voice tends to be too quiet for people to hear, and she's used to exasperated stares and confused frowns. Aurora gives her no such thing, only nods.

"I stayed behind to watch evening rehearsals," she says, offering what Elsa, as usual, is too shy to ask. She smiles, then adds, with a sly twinkle in her eyes, "You know, I think Anna looks better than me in that outfit. Her hair is obviously more colour coordinated with the aspen leaves, so it might be that – or you might be doing a better job of her make-up. We can't have that, now, can we?"

Elsa goes completely rigid for a moment. Is that true? Is it? How can it even be true when she _shakes _so much doing Anna's make-up? Then again, what is Aurora trying to say? Does she know? Does she – but when Elsa looks up again, Aurora is smiling, her teasing only benign. The more nervous of the pair relaxes a little and returns the smile, now with relative ease.

"No," she says, poking back tentatively, "she can't be allowed to look better than you, of course."

Aurora raises her hand briefly and Elsa can already feel herself recoil out of instinct – the dancer recognises this, lets her hand fall back, and pinches at the edge of her sleeve instead. Elsa blinks. Is she...?

"We should get some drinks together one of these days," she proposes, softly. Elsa smiles again, unable to help feeling like she's looking at some sort of Audrey Hepburn or Ingrid Bergman in black and white; Aurora's voice really is _so_ romantic. Actually... that reminds her...

"But – um, I don't mean to be presumptuous, but you aren't –"

"Available?" Aurora grins, again with a tinge of mischief, but pauses. "No. Phillip and I are together."

Elsa nods – that's what she thought – but then her eyebrow arches, and she finds herself thoroughly lost for words. She feels like she wants to ask – well, there are a few questions she could be asking, she's not sure which one to go for – and ultimately stands there looking, as Aurora seems to find, laughably puzzled. The pavement is beginning to look very attractive, and her gaze fixes upon it accordingly; Aurora begins to laugh shortly thereafter.

"Have a nice evening, Elsa."

And she looks up to catch a very obvious, very cryptic wink that makes her heart thump anxiously. Possessed by a sudden desire to escape the premises as soon as possible, Elsa returns the farewell and scurries back into the theatre.

The more she thinks about what just happened, the less she understands it. But she supposes it isn't her business to understand, not yet; for now she only has to ponder what to do herself. Whether or not the offer was meant in the way Elsa suspects, she hasn't exactly... socialised... in a very long time. Should she accept? Usually she wouldn't – and, as previously established, she _is_ socially inept – but Aurora is really nice, and, well, it's only a few days now. Sighing, Elsa wipes her palms on her biceps, but they remain obstinately clammy; she rubs with more and more vigor for a good few minutes before clenching her fingers around her sleeves again and frowning. She'll just stop by the toilet on the way out and wash them off with some cold water, right now she should really hurry up and find her wallet.

The moment she enters the dressing room, her own footsteps hardly making a sound, Elsa is met by a series of quiet sniffs and gasps. She pauses, weighing out her options; in the end she walks up to the table where her wallet lies, places her bag beside it, and follows the sound. It leads her to the wardrobe in the corner, which she finds exceedingly strange – if they were going to burst into tears in public, wouldn't most people think to hide in the toilet? Elsa finds a small, exasperated smile edging its way onto her mouth – it's an endearingly infantile location, to be honest – and edges the door open. She kneels down, making herself small, as though approaching a wounded or skittish animal.

The figure in the wardrobe assumes a position she knows only too well, knees pulled in, arms tugging at her legs. Elsa quickly begins to feel as though this was a terrible idea; she can't think what to do and a slow growing anxiety slips its thin sharp claws about her neck. She gulps, breathes. A hand ghosts out from beside her to, she doesn't know, comfort the girl, get her attention? And then she realises –

"Anna?"

Well, that just made it several times worse. She begins to snatch her hand back, but then she blinks, and what happens next happens in a flash. Anna grabs her wrist and pulls her into the wardrobe; as gravity would have it, she collapses awkwardly against wood first, before the other girl shifts to encircle her torso and choke her like a life raft. The blonde can feel her chest collapsing in on itself, her blood turning to ice. Fear's fingers are on her nape again, its teeth against her ear; Anna grasps at the fabric beneath her shoulder blades, her breath skirting over Elsa's neck, and Elsa loses whatever strength she had left. Her hand rests awkwardly on Anna's head, the other on her shoulder, moving slowly. Dead already, she thinks... she's dead already.

After a few moments of sobbing with varying degrees of intensity, Anna grows still. Whatever lives on in Elsa's brain and continues to perform some semblance of function decides that now is a good time for them to separate enough for eye contact – either way, it would do her a lot of good if Anna's body would quit its position fully flushed against hers. She pushes at Anna's shoulder slowly and, still dazed, looks into her eyes, glistening blue-green beneath a watery sheen. Words fail her yet again, her throat dry and painful. Then Anna speaks, sniffing.

"Nothing happened," she assures hoarsely, "not really. It's just... sometimes you just get sad, right?"

Yes, Elsa thinks, I do, but _you_ shouldn't. Her entire form clenches, suddenly; Anna can feel it and jerks a little, her hands easing off her back only briefly, and the blonde scowls. She knows what this is about.

"You're more than just a spare, Anna."

She must sound surer than she's ever sounded in her life; she can see it in Anna's eyes, which entertain a glimmer of renewed hope.

"... So much more."

And of allowing herself this, she will probably regret few things more. But it's okay, Elsa thinks, relaxing ever so slightly as Anna's embrace becomes ever more comfortable – she might as well be dead already.

* * *

Anna is absolutely _livid_. Hand in hand with her sea green insect companion, she flies about the set with evidently more severity than she ever has before – Ariel is looking at her like she's fucking crazy, and the director is tossing her exasperated cries of, "slow the fuck down, Anna, you're throwing everybody else off!" But she's only getting faster, angrier; she glimpses Elsa, tall and poised on the tips of her toes as she reaches for Phillip's browline, and her heart is in her throat. Aurora, from the rock on which she sits, is supposed to be watching the ensemble but gazes sorrowfully between Phillip and Elsa instead. Well, Anna fumes, the poor girl doesn't have to worry about _that_; Elsa is the warmest, kindest person you've ever met for about _two seconds _before she turns on her heels and runs again.

The wound is still fresh. All it had taken was one look from Elsa to convince Anna that, yes, she was more than just a spare – and all it had taken for her faith to dissolve once more was the blatant rejection that struck her with a breathless hurt as soon as the morning began. Elsa has already forgotten her own words of comfort, her own incandescent gaze; Anna has been able to think of little else since.

After a very, _very _long day, Anna hits the in-house bar. She gets discounts for working at the theatre and, frankly, wants to wallow alone in a less incriminating location than those where she maintains a reputation for being an exceedingly boisterous drunk.

"Something large and fruity, please," Anna orders, resting her chin on the counter and doing her utmost to look as forlorn as a girl can get. Sure, the drinks are already discounted, but pity points would still be helpful.

"You're not going to be any more specific than that?"

"I'd like it to be pretty strong, but _really _sweet. I'll probably order another one right after."

"Thanks for clearing that up for me..." The bartender drifts off, sifting through his vast knowledge of alcoholic beverages for one of the many that meets her criteria. "How about a Singapore Sling? We do them with gin, cherry brandy, pineapple juice and passion fruit juice – there's even a little glazed cherry on top."

Anna scrunches her nose up childishly, less than appreciating of the mocking tone that creeps into his last point. She lifts her head, sizing him up; he's tall and well built, but his unmanly blondeness and the apprehensive tint to his soft chestnut gaze are the least intimidating qualities she's ever seen. For the time being, though, he's smirking at her, insulting her pride on a bad day, and she refuses to relent. She is here to ingest sugar and toxins, her insides be damned, and she does _not _need his sass right now.

"A _little _glazed cherry? A _single _glazed cherry? I hope you know that, as an understudy, I work twice as hard as anyone else here. I want at least _twenty _glazed cherries on my cocktail, sir. I am _entitled_."

The bartender looks astounded at first, then narrows his eyes at her. "A Singapore Sling with twenty glazed cherries, coming right up."

Satisfied, Anna returns her head to the counter, this time cheek-down in order to keep him in her field of vision.

"What's your name, again? Christopher?"

"_Kristoff_," he snaps. She watches as he reaches behind him for her chosen alcoholic beverage, blue amidst a bright plethora of many-coloured bottles, and sets to work. He doesn't make of a spectacle of it, as so many do, only shakes it up with evident skill and no show. She appreciates that; it's honest.

"Right," she says, "Kristoff."

After a few minutes, Kristoff slides her drink across the counter, foamy and pink with a large black straw and an enticingly fresh scent. Anna frowns.

"Where are my –"

And with a loud, ungraceful splash, he drops a fistful of shimmering red spheres into the glass.

"Twenty glazed cherries, Miss Understudy. You are entitled."

"Thanks, Kristoff," Anna grins, unashamed. Taking her first sip, she positively _shudders _with delight. "This is possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever drunk."

Kristoff clears his throat at this, obviously bashful. Anna smirks, victorious; she pops a celebratory cherry into her mouth, reveling in the soft blend of flavours it's absorbed. The large scale of natural sugars coupled with the slight, penetrating sting of the alcohol is just sublime, and all that's left now is for her mind to dull. Just a few minutes.

"You know," says Kristoff, "a lot of your colleagues like to have a good wallow here, but this is a first for you."

Anna nods, pulling away from her straw. "Yeah," she says, already beginning to feel her muscles loosen and her thoughts simplify, "I don't usually drink much, unless it's social. And I'm rarely unhappy."

She thinks she hears him mumble something at this, but he speaks up before she can ask. "Bad day, then?"

Anna nods again, munching on another cherry. She doesn't so much decide to come clean as it... pours out of her. "There's this girl who does make-up, and yesterday she did something really nice for me, and now she, like – I dunno – she's acting like it didn't happen." Anna pauses. "Actually, she treats me like that a lot. Like I'm some sort of... _disease_. But then the other day, she stopped some girls who were being a bit mean about me, and – ugh, she's just so _confusing_."

"Elsa, right?"

Anna raises an eyebrow. "You know her?"

"I work here." Right, Anna thinks, that's not cryptic at all. She doesn't ask, though. "I think – I think that people make bad choices if they're having a bad time. Like, if they're cross, or scared, or stressed."

Anna frowns. "That's beside the point, isn't it? I don't get what she's so cross at me for."

Kristoff rolls his eyes – really, could this guy _get_ more up himself? – and shakes his head like whatever life lesson he's about to toss her way is the most obvious thing in the world. "Not _at you_, just _in general_. You can't seriously be telling me you hadn't realised she just... always looks anxious about something?"

And Anna's mind collapses, suddenly, under the weight of her own abhorrently narrow vision, her own selfishness. The lack of eye contact, the rigid posture, the tremors – yes, tremors, how could she be so _daft_ – he's right, Elsa always looks troubled. Always. Anna brings a hand to her head and groans.

"Oh god. You really didn't notice."

What a sassy goddamn bastard. Anna downs the rest of her drink in a dejected torrent of guilt and uncertainty, then angrily rips at her leftover cherries. She's still completely livid – this time at herself.

"I'm not drunk enough, Kristoff. Get on it."

He takes a shallow, indignant breath. A lot of people have been looking at her like she's crazy today, and she's kind of beginning to think she might be.

"Oh, you're just _charming_, aren't you?"

"What can I say," she mumbles. Despite his evident displeasure, Kristoff starts moving to obey her, when suddenly she leans over the counter and grabs his arm. Briefly, a childish glee pulls at her again, possessing her to tug his sleeve insistently. "Wait, can I have a different one this time? Do you do those dessert cocktail things? I've never had one before but they sound awesome!" She gasps, "You don't have _chocolate_, do you?"

Kristoff sighs, extracting her from his arm. "No, we don't do a goddamn chocolate cocktail. But I think strawberry shortcake would suit you _perfectly_, Shortcake."

"Don't call me a fucking Shortcake, you big... _ugh_! That's not a thing!"

"Nice one, Shortcake. Very articulate."

"You know what Kristoff," she huffs, jumping down from her seat, "fuck you. I expect my sickeningly sweet alcoholic beverage right here," she jabs at the counter violently, "when I get back."

"Yeah, yeah."

And with that, she stalks off to the dressing room. Her heart still threatens to leap from her chest at the thought of Elsa, so Anna pushes it down, for now; she's only a little bit merry at the moment, and hopes to get very drunk by the end of the night, so she'll leave the thinking for tomorrow. Elsa's probably already left, and as long as she's sober Anna knows she won't be able to think of anything else.

What she isn't expecting to see when she finds her belongings is an extra bag, small and yellow, with a label on its handle reading "Anna." The strawberry blonde sweeps a tuft of hair behind her ear and lowers herself beside it, already fairly convinced by the lack of any other message – Hans is certainly not restrictive in his praise, sometimes even going so far as to write poetry for these situations – of who it must be from. Reaching inside, she pulls out a really fancy box of caramel chocolates – she already thinks she's about to cry – and The Rescuers on DVD. The yellow box is one thing, but the little mice on the cover of that film is another; it occurs to Anna as soon as the DVD pokes its head out of the bag that Elsa actually _listens _to her. Elsa knows her. She doesn't know Elsa at all.

Now she _knows_ she needs to be drunk. As soon as possible.

"Whoa there," Kristoff warns as she returns to her seat, shovelling strawberries and amaretto-infused ice cream down her throat, "you're going to kill yourself if you keep that up."

But Anna would be lying if she said that weren't exactly what she'd had in mind.


	3. Shooting stars and satellites

**A/N: **Apparently this chapter is a lot shorter than the others... I have never been very good at writing long chapters (or longer fics in general) so I'm sorry for any disappointment this may cause :/ Anyway, crazy amount of follows, thank you guys so much! I hope that this remains enjoyable to read and that I remain sufficiently regular in my updates! (I also hope to receive more constructive feedback from more of you lovely people, wink wink nudge nudge)

* * *

Something in Elsa's pocket shudders and her rabbit heart responds with a leap twice as violent. Her fingers flounder about for her phone and her chest only continues to serve as a hutch for one particularly volatile organ as she gazes blankly at the caller ID. Rigidly, she forces her thumb against the green button, but the moment she does she recognises this as a terrible, impulsive decision; what was intended as a word then exits her mouth in thin mist and a quiet wheeze, a death rattle. The caller hesitates.

"Elsa?"

The blonde gulps at empty air like it's water, trying to catch a word with all the ease of finding solace in the desert; eventually she stumbles upon something small, sufficient enough only to hiccup like a broken record.

"How a-a-are you?"

Silence. Elsa doesn't know that her prayers are worth anything, but it's hard not to pray that this malfunction in her speech will go unspoken of. After a moment, the voice across the line is soft,

"How are _you_, dear?"

She breathes. "Fine, mum." She doesn't know what else to say. There's a stickiness in her throat, like she's just eaten something too thick and too sweet and can't seem to swallow; her mother's voice always elicits this.

"Have you been taking your meds?" she insists, "Is therapy going well?"

"I have," Elsa says, semi-consciously fingering the too-light bottle in her pocket, "And therapy's going great."

She gulps, still unable to swallow. Her heart is simply galloping without end, picking up speed with the sound of her own lies. She waits, her ability to cut the conversation short crippled by guilt.

"That's wonderful, dear." Her mother pauses. "I've got a meeting to be in now, I just wanted to hear your voice. Take care, darling... I love you."

"Bye," Elsa whispers.

And that's that. Returning her phone to her pocket and fingering her sleeves again, Elsa snatches up her handbag and prepares to leave for the night. Her mouth is thick with a bitter aftertaste and her continued efforts to swallow are met with little success. Wandering absent-mindedly through the bar on the way out, she is halted by what she eventually registers as a call of her name, and turns towards the source of this disruption. She shifts about uncomfortably, impatiently; as usual, she could want nothing more than to leave the area as soon as possible.

"Uh, Elsa," Kristoff urges, simultaneously desperate and unwilling to impose on her, "do you think you could do me a favour and take this nutter home?"

The burly, fair-haired figure grapples with a stumbling, whining, red-headed drunk as he speaks; Elsa's temperature drops several degrees as she recognises Anna's signature braids, this time with glazed eyes and flushed face. Catching sight of the blonde's gaunt form, Anna's eyes only proceed to obtain further gloss, her jaw contorting into what the older girl is inclined to think a frown, and she all but leaps from Kristoff's arms into hers.

"Elsaaaaaa," she wails, "Elsaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

The blonde panics, but instinctively maneuvers her hands beneath Anna's shoulders in order to keep her steady. Their proximity only causes her further panic, but Elsa has no choice but to suck it up, now. She eyes Kristoff, her brow furrowed accusingly. He raises his hands, waving a figurative white flag.

"I swear I didn't put her up to this. Last night she fell asleep before it could get too out of hand, 'cause she was eating the chocolate you gave her, but tonight she was completely smashed after the third drink, and started falling over while I was serving someone else. My shift is all night, so please...?"

Elsa is at first cripplingly distressed by the prospect of fulfilling this task, but her subsequent response surprises even herself. It is as though her body, usually heavy with fatigue, strengthens with cause, gains confidence with initiative; she hoists the mumbling figure upwards, pulling Anna's arm around her own shoulder and placing her other arm around Anna's waist, nodding at Kristoff in agreement. Evidently her sudden ability to stand tall is bewildering to him, too – it's just a shame she still can't swallow – but then she remembers a vitally important detail in all of this.

"I don't have a car..."

Ordinarily she would have been more than happy to walk Anna home, if she trusted her own ability to keep the semi-conscious redhead safe, but – well – she doesn't. Trust herself, that is.

Kristoff, however, doesn't hesitate for a second. He tosses her his keys, which she somehow manages to release Anna's hand just in time to catch, and smiles.

"Red Vision 50, car park in the back. Just get it to me by five."

"Excuse me?"

Kristoff pulls a charcoal helmet out from beneath the counter, slotting it under Elsa's arm. He then grabs Anna's gym bag, hooking it over her shoulder.

"It's a scooter, okay? A red one."

Elsa blinks. Her gaze flutters between the keys and Kristoff's rolling eyes. He's trusting her, she realises. She feels herself about to ask why, why her, just _why_ but she doesn't; she only blinks again, and smiles back.

"It's definitely less than manly of you to own a scooter," she quips. When he offers her only an exasperated wave of the hand in return, she adds, "Thank you, Kristoff," and hauls Anna out to the humble steed that has been rented out to her.

But this is where Elsa's fleeting burst of tenacity gives way to her conventional state of convalescence; she begins to gulp, then stops and sucks at her teeth, telling herself to get on with it – Anna won't remember a thing tomorrow anyway – and the older girl eases the dancer onto the back seat before slipping in front of her and fiddling with the keys, losing control of her hands again. Her breath hitches as Anna dispels the entirety of her body weight across Elsa's back, tugging at the fabric over her stomach, her voice between her shoulder blades, rumbling languidly. Elsa's tongue catches between her teeth and she hisses at the pain of it as she turns enough to maneuver the helmet onto Anna's head, doing all she can not to look her in the eye, just to ignore the distance between their lips, just to get the key in the fucking ignition; then the engine roars to life, and Elsa breathes.

"Hold on tight," she says, tensing as Anna's hands, aimless as they are, find her ribs. She didn't mean it, she reasons, she didn't want to have to say it, but this is her safety, right? Elsa exhales, and turns out of the car park.

Every moment after is a struggle.

* * *

The state of Anna's consciousness is, at this point, dubious at best. She wakes up to a body in her arms and a distinct, circumferential weight about her skull; the last thing she remembers is gravity stealing her from a bar stool, and she is _very _unsure of anything that may have happened inbetween. She lifts her hand to her head, struggling against a heavy lethargy that pulls at her limbs, and wraps her knuckles against the imposing object. A helmet? Anna feels the body she's holding shift, then recognises the strap beneath her chin, and rests said chin upon her partner's shoulder. She's not being too trusting, she's just incapable, currently, of logical thought. And, returning her free arm to the woman's – woman's? yes, woman's – waist, Anna can't help but find the position intoxicatingly comfortable.

Shortly thereafter, the strawberry blonde is able to recognise black oceans and white lines – perhaps rocks? sea foam? – swimming past her eyes. Lights on sticks, too, lamps, figures on a grey shore; she feels queasy, suddenly.

"Hey," she urges her partner, her words proceeding to tumble forth with little coherence and no grace, "do you mind if we – oh god – it's just – I think I'm gonna be sick –"

A gagging sound promptly forces its way from Anna's throat, and she can feel something infinitely less benign rise steadily with it. They pull over swiftly and Anna vaguely acknowledges a pair of hands between her shoulders, abating her discomfort with soothing motions, guiding her own hands as she undoes the knots in her gut.

"Ugh," she groans after a good five minutes of violent vomiting, "look at all that chunder..."

Both of them proceed to look hastily _away _from all that chunder, and turn to each other instead. When she begins dabbing faintly at Anna's mouth, the redhead finally manages to recognise Elsa, and her sluggish heart is arrested; suddenly imbued with a superfluous awareness of the other girl Anna grasps her wrist in one hand and her cheek in the other, holding onto Elsa for dear life, just holding her _there_.

"Please," she blurts, unable to continue aloud, please don't run away, please don't run away from me. Elsa avoids her gaze at first, but eventually she is forced to stare right back at Anna, who watches in wonder as the blonde relents, gradually. The older girl chews at her lip, eventually drawing blood, then licking away the small red bud that is birthed; Anna finds herself wondering what blood tastes like on lips, and what Elsa's lips might taste like, with or without blood – the thought is far from sobering and she is far from sober, so no inclination to chide herself is announced in the caverns, the hallways, the windmills of her mind. She doesn't know when she was taken into Elsa's arms or when she was floated back to the scooter, but with her nose against the top of the other girl's jumper, caught between the stray pale locks at her nape, Anna smells ash, pines, rain, chocolate. She had never known that winter could be so beautiful.

"Which is yours?"

Anna blinks, suddenly more alert, more aware of missing time. Has it been minutes, hours? Reluctant to pull away from Elsa's scent, she edges her face across her companion's shoulder, blinking some more to wake herself up. It's her street.

"Seventy-four," she says, before realising she doesn't want to go home. "Can we get some Mcdonald's? I'm starving."

Anna feels irrationally guilty the moment she asks, but Elsa passes the seventy-fourth house on her street without hesitation.

"Yeah, we can."

So Anna makes herself comfortable again. When they stop at the drive-through Elsa refuses to buy anything for herself and refuses to let Anna pay, all in that silent, irrefutable way she has that is both sweet and adorable but utterly unmoving. The dancer still needs her arms around Elsa's abdomen if she is to stay aboard the vehicle, so she awkwardly shovels Mcflurry and fries over the other girl's shoulder and into her mouth. Once they're on the road again, Anna requests they drive off into the countryside, still unwilling to go home just yet; in the meantime, it becomes her mission to get Elsa to experience the wonders of deep-fried potato snacks drenched in vanilla, toffee and chocolate ice cream.

"It's a sweet and salty thing. Cream and crisp, sugar and grease, milk and starch – it'll revolutionise your taste buds!"

"More like _murder _them," Elsa contends. "Bloody weird is what it is – I'm still not willing to believe dipping chips in ice cream is a thing."

Anna pauses, taken aback. "Who the _fuck_ would dip chips in ice cream?" she demands. "Chips are for fish, chips are for battered sausage, chips are for newspaper cones and football games; dipping _Mcdonald's fries _in _Mcflurries _is another matter entirely. Ice cream is a whole 'nother story, too – for sharing with friends, eating when you're sad, days that're too hot for ice cream to be refreshing and days that're too cold for summer in any other country. You really don't know anything about anything, do you, Elsa?"

"Clearly," she deadpans. "Where have you been all my life?"

And Anna can't help but feel her chest shiver a little at that. It's a joke, but oddly thought-provoking – where has Elsa been all her life? Where are all the days she could have spent on the back of someone's scooter, all the shy apologies in shopping bags, when all Anna has ever done is skip school alone to go to dance practice alone, and climb trees to look at the sky alone, never knowing how anyone else might find the view? Returning as quickly as she can to the topic at hand, she sighs, "Someday you will see the light."

The next stretch of time passes comfortably, so much so that Anna loses track of just how long it lasts. Her cheek against Elsa's shoulder blade, still breathing in ice and heat, the freshness of winter and the soft, satisfying burn of a radiator's surface or a sip of tea on a cold day, she looks upon vast, dark fields and house-shaped shadows, utility poles and the occasional yellow light, into the past and into the future. It's absolutely quiet, but what sounds she can hear are incredibly loud; the two of them in isolation are more together than they have ever been. She closes her eyes.

"Let's pull over for a while."

They leave the scooter, helmet and bags nearby, Elsa climbing the fence first, then helping Anna for fear she might still be unable to coordinate. Anna drops onto the grass and Elsa eases herself beside her, eyeing a clear night sky littered with small, shimmering sentinels and smiling, perhaps unknowingly. Anna braves the distance between their fingers, knotting them together; she's not sure who's holding whose hand or if maybe they're holding each other's, but for now she doesn't mind.

"I'm sorry for keeping you up," she murmurs, "whatever hour this is it must be ungodly."

"Two o'clock," says Elsa, after a pause, "but it's okay. I can't sleep anyway."

Anna closes her eyes again. The stars, the breeze, the grass, Elsa's hand in hers – this is it.

"I've probably told you this before, but I have a lot of weird dreams," she begins, yawning. "This one time, I think there was one about a man made out of fruit salad chunks..."

And with her own voice humming in the backdrop of Elsa's silence, it isn't long before she falls asleep.


	4. Trying to talk to me, coy koi

**A/N: **As a warning, this chapter hints at the contents of those that will immediately follow, and will address issues such as mental illness and related symptoms and treatments. Future warnings will crop up as appropriate.

* * *

Elsa's bare palms wrap around the sleeveless paper cup before her and fail to absorb any of its heat. She's not sure if it's because her hands are cool, or numb, or both; she often feels as though the two of them are trapped in a perpetual state of frigidity, and if they're not, perhaps the skin on them is burning away slowly and always has been, without her knowledge. Despite the presence of the takeaway cup in her hands, she is in fact seated _inside_ a Costa coffee shop with (what must be, though she can't be sure) a scalding hot gingerbread latte, which she has chosen not to order in a ceramic cup because she isn't terribly good at keeping them intact for longer than five minutes. Her gaze, having been fixed on the empty chair across her just before, suddenly moves to meet an object that she pulls from the pocket of the pink-trimmed blazer that, in her opinion, doesn't suit her at all. Quietly, she plucks two capsules apart, empties their contents into her coffee, and slips the cylindrical bottle that housed them just seconds before back into her pocket. The two green and two white domes that survive, now void, stare back at her knowingly from the table; she can only frown both at _Prozac_ and at _20mg_, all four of whom have done little to ease her suffering, and scorn their pity. Her hand engulfs them without remorse and expels them swiftly from her sight; then, as her shoulders begin to sink with relief, a screech from directly ahead draws her attention.

"I'm sorry," Aurora grimaces, her hand frozen on the other chair as though caught in the midst of a terrible action, "that was an awful sound."

In a black suspender skirt and plain white blouse, looking beautiful in her simplicity yet regal as ever, she seats herself and smiles apologetically. Elsa clears her throat and gestures towards the other cup on the table, an eat-in mug like any other, the cappuccino dusting on its contents artfully woven into the silhouette of a swan. Aurora gasps, pointing a dainty finger in her own direction, then looking from Elsa to the mug in apparent disbelief.

"How did you... why a swan?"

Elsa smiles fondly. "Your ringtone is the _leitmotif_ from Swan Lake, you warm up to _les danses des cygnes_, and when you're in a good mood you hum _le danse napolitane_... I figured Tchaikovsky was your favourite." She pauses, frowning. "Was I wrong?"

Aurora blinks, her expression briefly arrested in wide-eyed wonder, when slowly her blue eyes begin to shimmer with the ripple of understanding that spreads from the pebble of Elsa's short, sweet question; her squared shoulders are released, her neck, previously erect, relaxes, and an infinitely warm smile graces her lips, reaching as far as Elsa's skin. The paler girl twitches, glancing quickly and secretively at her own hand, incredulous.

"No," Aurora assures, "far from it." She pauses as though to gauge whether or not she should, then visibly shrugs and decides to go on. "I've been doing ballet since I was five. Trite, I know, but I've always just _really_ wanted to be a ballerina. Even Tchaikovsky is kind of a classic to love as much as I do, but I can't help it. And Swan Lake, god – the way a really talented ballerina can make you see wings where her arms should be – and of course the others, Sleeping Beauty, Romeo and Juliet, The Nutcracker... I just love it all so much. I don't think anything could be more beautiful."

"Not even Phillip?"

It's a joke, but Aurora doesn't laugh. Looking solemn, she shakes her head. "No. Not even... not anything."

Elsa gulps. The air is heavy, and yet again she finds herself at a complete loss. What are people supposed to do in these situations? Should she leave it at that? Change the subject? Or should she press on? Which does Aurora want her to do? She very nearly squints at the other girl, looking for something, anything to go on; how is she even supposed to _know _what Aurora wants from her? Elsa inhales deeply, but quietly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she prompts, as softly as possible. Then she scolds herself in silence; if only she could figure out how to stop this whole mumbling thing.

"It's not him," Aurora blurts suddenly, dispelling the worry that she may have had trouble hearing Elsa's too-quiet cue, "At least I don't think it is. It's just, you know, you get into a relationship expecting one thing, and what you actually get is completely different."

"Okay," Elsa says slowly, "so what are you getting and what had you been expecting?"

The other girl sighs. "I was expecting... I guess... more romance. Picnics, idle chatter, kissing, dinner dates, always being together..."

"You mean you don't do any of those things?"

"Well... I do. We do. But not often at all. It seems like we barely have time for each other outside of work. I don't know what happened to those first few days of fireworks, excitement... I mean, that's why I think it might be me. Maybe we went too fast. I used to have this dream," she laughs, "as a kid, that I'd marry a prince who loved dancing as much as me. And when my nan and her friends used to ask how I could know it was love if I'd never met him before, I told them I had done, once upon a dream."

Elsa smiles, then shifts a little and assumes seriousness again. "I can see how that would be a problem." She pauses, fairly certain of what it is she feels, but completely _uncertain_ about how to communicate it. Her nervousness has subsided, as it often does when she is able to focus on something completely apart from herself. If she hadn't already been unable to sense its heat, Elsa may have, at this point, forgotten the cup in her hands; she barely tastes her drink as it sloshes past her tongue. "I don't think it's... it's not impossible for you and Phillip to work, I think... I guess you just have to... adjust your expectations? Adapt. Yes, adapt. Make sure you know who he is and what he wants. And that you want the same things. That is, if you still love him – do you still love him?"

Aurora's countenance shifts seamlessly from anticipation to attentiveness, attentiveness to confusion, confusion to understanding, and understanding to desperation, all within the bounds of Elsa's first and last word. The dancer tenses, then nods; then she relaxes, and shakes her head. "I don't know."

Elsa allows this to sink in. "That's okay too."

And between the return of Aurora's sincerest smile and the tentative touch of her hand as she stands to leave, Elsa's thoughts lose clarity. Spurred on by the lack of outright rejection in the make-up artist's body language, the other girl chances a pleading glance into her eyes, wrapping her arms around her slowly, squeezing her gently; Elsa cannot relearn quickly enough how to return an embrace, but Aurora holds her anyway, and when she leaves, Elsa turns to thinking. She doesn't have much longer left. But now...

No. No, this is best. She closes her eyes and drinks the rest of her coffee. Her palms don't throb; she doesn't feel them.

* * *

"_Fuck!_"

Anna gives a violent cry and writhes sharply out of Ariel's grasp. The other girl catches her flailing limb swiftly and accurately, gripping the skin above her ankle like a fisherman spearing a wild salmon; as Anna's cries subside into low, agonised wails, Ariel turns back to the wound, at once stern and apologetic, and softly presses the back of her foot into an ice pack.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her brows pressed into one another with earnest remorse, glancing briefly at Anna in order to communicate as much. At her friend's forgiving half-smile, Ariel's eyes flit between the foot, the ice pack and the antiseptic, and she leans over awkwardly to stand the bottle back up before the carpet can absorb any more of its contents.

"It's okay," Anna wheezes, "I'm the one who's being so dramatic about it."

She sees Ariel shake her head and proceeds to eye her own wound tentatively, wondering if it looks as bad as it feels. As it turns out, it truly does, and her nose shrivels up in disgust as she looks upon it; the long strip of flesh that once covered her Achilles' tendon is torn away, still hanging off in places and leaving a warm, wet, fleshy red mass of muscle gaping back at her. Ariel presses the ice back on, simultaneously drenching another cotton bud in antiseptic.

"I'm going to have to try again, Anna. Take a deep breath?"

The wounded party nods, closing her eyes and squaring her shoulders, taking long, even breaths. The sting is impossible to ignore, the pain causes her to hiss and flinch, but she holds her foot valiantly in place.

"Sometimes I still can't believe how clumsy you are for a dancer," Ariel muses, rolling her eyes. Anna purses her lips, suppressing ardent rebuttals and pouting in silence as Ariel ceases cleaning her heel and sets to work on an impromptu bandage. Indeed, the reason for Anna's injury is the result of a terrible miscalculation; as the only red-headed females in the troupe (though some may have thought it cruel not to include Hans) the two have been paired off in every single dance since the first day of practice, and, brought together as they were by this genetic predisposition, soon became fast friends. They've hung out at each other's houses to bring their movements to synchronicity – ordering pizza, watching movies, and falling asleep to their own whispered gossip right after – many times since, and sometimes, as on this occasion, Ariel agrees to give Anna a less callous critique of her solo performance than that on offer at the theatre. Moments ago, in the midst of what began as a smooth, powerful _jeté_, the back of Anna's outstretched heel smashed into the mantelpiece and was unable to escape for a long moment, during which the marble teeth in question tore at her flesh and pushed her mangled limb to the ground, eliciting from her punch-drunk remains a harrowing howl. Remembering the furniture involved in the incident, Anna suddenly turns to the ornaments strewn across the floor and the fireplace caked with blood; her parents are going to kill her for this.

"Yeah," she offers absent-mindedly, her thoughts changing course once again. Perhaps noticing a solemnity in her friend's features which can't but be frightening, Ariel frowns.

"Were you thinking about anything in particular?"

Anything in particular? Anna pauses, discerns. Ah, yes, she supposes... "Elsa."

Silence.

"I was thinking about Elsa," she repeats.

"Elsa?" Ariel's eyebrow leaps an irretrievable distance away from her. Besides from the odd remark at her oddness, shyness, or even her talent, Anna is sure her red-headed companion has never given the make-up artist much thought before now. This realisation makes her stomach churn guiltily, remembering her own obliviousness at Elsa's obvious struggle with anxiety, and her frown deepens. "What about her?"

And she relates the events of the previous night with ardour, if a little bewildered by her own increasingly evident lack of clarity with regards to said events. "I was drunk," she begins, "and Kristoff apparently lent Elsa his scooter – which is pretty weird, don't you think? Him having a scooter I mean, it's hardly manly, even if you're the main character in one of those artsy Italian films with the accordion playing in the background as the leading man drives along the motorway – which is the wrong way around in Italy, right? And in France, don't they drive on the right side of the road in France? Maybe it's French films I'm thinking of, I don't know – but yeah, driving along with a smirk on his face – and anyway the point is Kristoff is _not_ one of those guys and it doesn't suit him to have a scooter – but it definitely suits Elsa to have a scooter and she should definitely get one..." The thought immediately seems to act as a tranquiliser, Anna's wild gestures and breathless rambling slowing considerably, though she continues to make little sense. "She would have looked really cute if she had been wearing a helmet, which I remember she wasn't, because all I _really_ remember is bits of her being really sweet, and thinking I was crazy for eating fries with my McFlurry, which I probably am, but maybe I'm not, 'cause I thought that was a thing. Isn't it a thing? And also her driving me home and taking me other places on the way just because I asked, and her being kind of cold at first then really warm to hug, if you can call it hugging when you're sitting behind someone on a bike and you kind of have to hold them."

Even as Ariel blinks perplexedly up at her, Anna is unable to sift through her own thoughts. She glimpses reddened cotton balls strewn about her, frowning for poor Ariel as her blood soaks through the bandage she worked so hard to manufacture in mere seconds; the other girl quickly opts to hold a bundle of cloth to the wound instead, waiting for Anna's blood to stop pouring so mercilessly, and turns back to her, a semblance of understanding forming on her features.

"Why were you drunk at the theatre in the first place? I thought you didn't drink to get drunk."

"I was upset," Anna admits, "because I didn't get why Elsa was brushing me off so much when she can be so painfully lovely sometimes. Kristoff made me realise she's just generally distant, like she's afraid of something, and I felt worse, and got drunker." She pauses. "More drunk."

At this point, as she chances another attempt at a bandage, Ariel is smirking like she's just got in on a secret from which Anna has been brusquely excluded. Hardly conscious of the now dull throb of her cooled heel gently handled, Anna reaches back to release her strawberry blonde hair from the shoddy ballet bun in which it previously was prisoner, and offers Ariel her most disapproving look. Her fellow ginger only shrugs.

"I think you should re-evaluate the notion that you fancy Hans."

Anna blinks. "What does that have to do with anything?"

An understanding that still has yet to bud causes a reactionary stir to agitate Anna's chest, but the dancer pointedly ignores it. Instead, the mention of her other partner's name sets alarm bells ringing in her mind, and concurrently serves as a welcome distraction to this feeling that she does not know.

"Hans!" she cries, "Hans is going to be here any minute!"

Another case of double-booking rattles the rest of Anna's evening. Ariel, as is in her nature, insists that she is not too troubled at being dismissed so soon, abashedly revealing that a flautist from their very own orchestra pit gave her his number last week.

"What do you mean he only plays _second _flute?" Anna mock admonishes, "You can do better than that _ma chère_!"

Ariel rolls her eyes, "His name is Eric, and second flute isn't any easier than first. Anyway, I can call him and see if he's free for dinner."

So after several rounds of profuse apology for her lack of organisation skills and thanks to Ariel for harnessing her nursing abilities, Anna is left alone to wait for Hans, and barely moves from the sofa, crippled as she is by her injury. She falls to thinking, her mind once again consumed by Elsa; even as the hours pass with Hans – who is sweet enough to clean up the mantelpiece before her parents get home and explain her predicament calmly to them when they do – the meaning of Ariel's words begins to surface in all its tangible, half-formed glory like the sprout of a seed through the soil of her mind.

But she's tired, now. She decides to water the shoot tomorrow.


	5. Will you be here before I sputter out?

**A/N: **I might not update for a couple of months after this, exams start soon and I am scared absolutely shitless… unfortunately it is not likely that I will have time to update :(

* * *

Elsa's grapple hook fingers press into the groove of her collar bone like the edge of a rooftop, like she's clinging on for not-so-dear life. She slips, she scrabbles, draws her nails across soft concrete, driving them deeper in sometimes, sometimes harder, sometimes looking for something more solid beneath or behind, in her ribs, her shoulder blades. When will something _hold_,when will something _give_, which does she even _want_? It occurs to her that, if in any capacity she _does _still want to haul herself back up and drag herself along again – well, that's exactly the problem. It's _herself_ she's clinging onto, and she's not exactly made of the staunchest stuff.

"A spiteful person," she mumbles, a sick person. Diseased, malignant. Her lungs, she thinks, must be black. But what if they're not? She flips over, a sharp, convulsive movement like a struggle, grabs another cigarette, where's the matchbox? There it is, piece of shit, strike strike strike, why won't it light? Strike strike _strike_, there it is, about time, she lights it, holds it like a straw, drinks poison like it's medicine.

Medicine. It's not like she stopped because it wasn't working. Obviously it was. She respects doctors, too, of course she does, they just want to help. But she isn't made of glass. She _isn't_, but even if she were–

So her lungs are black. _Let them be black_. Let them shrivel, let them burn. And what about her heart? It's frozen, she thinks – she can feel this _thing _in her chest but it's more like a wrecking ball, a piece of ice – so maybe it was her heart she was trying to thaw but she couldn't hit the mark, and now her lungs are ashen. Well they can go _fuck _themselves.

But that's not it, either. Her heart, her lungs, burnt, frozen, what does any of that matter? It's a _disease_, and it's not even in her chest, it's in her _head_. It's in her ears, her eyes, her hands, her lips, her tongue. She stabs the cigarette out on the bed sheets; she lowers herself to the floor, slips under the bed, scurries underground. It's better here, safer; she can't hear, she can't see, she can't feel, speak, or taste, and maybe if she can't do any of those things she won't be able to _think _either.

But then there's this... banging. _Bang bang_. Everything is silent. She waits, and there it is again. _Bang bang_. And she wants to ignore it so much but time has stopped, it's standing still, and it forces her to recognise the sound existing somewhere above and beyond herself, beckoning to her, _screaming _for her. Still, she doesn't move. She can't, she won't; a ghost is in her ears, just when she thought she could shut it all out, why can't it go and haunt someone else? And if it won't, well fine, it can go ahead; it can _come at her _with all its fucking got.

"Elsa?"

Not a word escapes her lips; she strangles all that try before they can. Her teeth curl around her finger and grind at every word.

"Elsa, it's Anna again."

A pause. She's probably shifting her feet, her fingers skirting the top of her ear and pushing back her hair, that same bit of hair _right there_, always in the same place. She wonders how many times Anna's fingers have run through that same tuft of hair right above her right ear, right _there_; it's got to have been a lot of times, so many, too many to count. Elsa's eyes shoot open in a flash, how is it she can't escape these things she sees even when her eyes are closed? They're stinging, stinging from all the times she's glared straight ahead, straight through it all, too scared to blink, too scared she'll see someone else behind her eyes, if not Anna someone _worse_, if not him, if not them,_ no one at all_. But she can't be letting this happen, she needs the silence again. Time slows... and it stops.

"Uh... hi. I know you don't really want to see me, but Aurora's with me this time, and I thought you might want to see her. I mean, I don't know, she wants to see _you_ and I don't see why you wouldn't want to see _her_ – I mean, obviously it makes sense you wouldn't want to see _me_, and it's fine, I _get _it... um, anyway, if you don't want to talk to me, which I completely get, maybe you'll want to talk to her, 'cause, um, you've got to talk to _someone_, or at least open the door. I mean, no one's seen you leave for a week, how are you even–"

"_Anna_."

"Right. Rambling. You should take over."

"Elsa, it's Aurora. I don't know what's going on in there but I'm really – um, both Anna and I, and everyone else, is really worried about you, and would at least like to be... enlightened as to your situation. Please?"

"Okay, see? She _is _here, I was telling the truth, so _there_... problem solved, right? Are you going to let us in now?"

"Anna, I think we should leave."

"Alright, at least you, then – Elsa, at _least _let Aurora–"

"_Anna_. We can come back later, okay? Or… I don't know. Wait."

"Right. Right... let's go, then."

There's a shuffling, a clicking. They leave, the sounds fade out, the banging stays at bay. Elsa's teeth release her fingers, she closes her eyes.

The silence breaks again.

* * *

The wounded look on Hans' face is far too much for Anna to handle. She averts her gaze, swallows thickly; guilt is already sticking in her throat like the reparations of a too-sickly pudding (a strange comparison, but the only one she thinks she has the expertise to make), and she hasn't even _dumped _him yet. Well, dumped is a harsh word, she thinks; she'd prefer to call her intended course of action a... proposal (based on an understanding that will surely be mutual) that they simply are not suited to each other's needs, and should promptly move towards the cessation of all romantic relations. It's not like she's going to be much of a loss anyway, right? He'll get over it quickly enough. Anyone would. The point being that, as things stand, Anna can't help it if she isn't very receptive to her still-boyfriend's... well, boyfriend-like advances; moments ago she all but leapt from his grasp as his fingers found her waist. It's funny, she thinks, that little more than a couple of weeks ago nothing would have made her happier, and now it's making her nauseous.

"Bugger off," she exclaims, playing it off as a joke, "no fan of Crystal Palace is touching me today!"

She takes the opportunity to inflate her devoted Chelsea cheeks in her best imitation of an angry blue puffer fish, and reaches for the hem of her likewise blue shirt in the throes of a sudden bout of football fever. As he likely glimpses red lace above bare skin, Hans frantically makes a grab for her hands and forces them back down.

"Alright, alright," he half-laughs, half-sighs, "just keep your clothes on, _please_."

Anna pouts. "Are you trying to tell me that my half-naked self is not pleasing to you?"

She regrets it as soon as she says it. She's going to _break up with him_, for god's sake.

"It's certainly pleasing to _me_, the problem is it's probably just as pleasing to the people directly _behind _you."

Anna rolls her eyes and raises her hands in mock surrender. She needs a break, she decides. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going to get some chips. Want anything?"

"I'll have some too, thanks... and a beer."

"Whoa whoa whoa. A beer w_ith _your chips? A beer _and _chips?" She stares at him for a moment, emotions indistinguishable against her features, and he matches the intensity of her gaze, though visibly incredulous. He doesn't think it's a weird combination, he thinks _she's _weird. He's right. "You, sir, are brave. I salute you." And, saluting him, she bounds away.

Once Anna has tumbled far enough through the onset of screaming people just ahead (far too many of them clad in the blue and red of Crystal Palace for her liking), a deep breath speeds off past her lips and down the stairs, and she follows close behind. At this point, her expression begins to fall, revealing for a moment the full extent of the agonies to which she has been subject these past few days. The first of Elsa's absences had, of course, made her nervous, but she hadn't thought much of it initially; the blonde was just as entitled as anyone else to a day off if she was feeling poorly – which Anna imagined she must be – but then one day turned to two, and two to three, and no one knew why, so Anna started to panic. It's trite, she knows, to say that her heart stopped at the thought that something seriously bad might have happened to Elsa, but for a moment it truly did; then, right after, it began to feel the way it had when she was five years old in the back of an ambulance, her hand in her stiffening, darkening hair, coming away all red like she was going to die, and her heart's been feeling that way every moment since. Yes, exactly like that, if feels _exactly _like that; if something seriously bad has happened to Elsa, Anna thinks she might die. And every day for close to a week she's gone to Elsa's door on the third floor of a big brown building – the colour is disgusting, really, Anna is quite aghast at the mayor's lack of concern for the aesthetic aspect of council estates – seen wreaths on people's doors, flowers in their windows, toys and kids on the other end of the balcony, and nothing at all on this one white door. It's disarming, disheartening, _dismembering_, but Anna can't sleep anymore, and at least with her back against Elsa's door she can sometimes make out a sound, and a sound is a moment's respite, sometimes a moment's sleep. She doesn't know what else to do.

"Uh, miss? Your order, please?"

Anna blinks, looking up at the massive dark-haired man that looks ever less impressed by her as the seconds pass. He gives his squarish chin a slightly exaggerated, slightly _too _admiring caress, and glares at her impatiently.

"Right, sorry. Um, two orders of chips and two beers, please. Wait, no – the beers, I'll take three of them. Cheers!"

She doesn't exactly appreciate his exasperated sigh and lack of response as he turns away, but Anna steps aside promptly and watches the next customer as he steps up – or, at least, _tries _to step up – and take her place. A little boy, probably eight or nine years old, scrunches his nose up in the most adorable display of perseverance, making himself as tall as the tips of his toes will allow. Anna smiles and, looking him up and down, is relieved to find that, unlike her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, this kid is _not_ with the enemy. His clean white football shirt – Chelsea's away kit, the one they've got on today – is a sight for sore eyes.

"What's the score?" she asks, perhaps too casually, waving and smiling at the kid as he joins her in waiting. To his credit, the boy is completely unfazed by the familiarity of her manner, his smile almost matching hers in its forwardness. It's her own attitude that elicits this response, she supposes, but she can't help the amazement she feels; usually people just get really nervous or look at her like she's crazy. A lot of people look at her like she's crazy, god. Maybe this kid is crazy too.

"One all," he says, "we just evened the score. If you missed it, it was _brilliant_, Ivanovic booted it all the way to the other end and it took Torres and Lampard all of five seconds to get it in!"

Anna squeals, jumping up and down in her excitement, "_Yes_, Crystal Palace is going to be all over the place now!"

"Three beers and two orders of chips for the ginger over there!"

"Gaston, don't be such a _fucking_ twat! Excuse me miss, your order's ready."

Anna opts not to take offence, instead finding amusement in the mastery these people seem to have of English curses in spite of their conspicuous French accents. She smiles at the pretty brunette, actually quite sweet-looking and apologetic despite her awful language, who promptly places her book face-down on the counter in order to offer her two cones of chips. Anna frowns as soon as they're in her own hands; she asks the kid to hold one of them, then looks thoughtfully at her three beers for about two seconds before throwing caution to the wind and downing two of them as quickly as she possibly can. The French girl is wide-eyed, the little boy is laughing, and Anna grins, passing him his own cone and taking Hans' drink with her finally free hand.

"So what's your name?" Anna asks at last. Once she realises the boy is walking back through the crowd at her side, she thinks she ought to find out.

"I'm Olaf," he chimes, "and I like warm hugs!"

Anna laughs, "Me too!"

"You're called Olaf too?"

"No, silly, I like warm hugs too."

"Oh, right. And you are?"

"Anna. I'm Anna."

"Do you plan on eating all of that by yourself, Anna?"

"Unfortunately not. These are for my... friend. The one you're holding is mine."

"Oh. I thought you were giving it to me for me."

"Well," she giggles, "you can have it if you want."

"Oh no! No, I couldn't do that."

"Where are you sitting Olaf?"

"That doesn't matter. I was sitting on my own anyway. Can I sit with you guys?"

"Wait, where are your parents?" She regrets it the moment she asks, but Olaf doesn't bat an eye.

"I don't have any," he says, "I'm looking for someone."

And guilt sticks in Anna's throat again, constricting her airways like mucus, trapping words that try to run. Probably for the best, she decides; her inability to mind her own goddamn business is why Elsa won't talk to her, and now she's putting complete strangers through the same thing.

"She's this really nice blonde lady," Olaf continues, "who was at the hospital my dad worked at a couple of years ago. He said I shouldn't bug her, that she needed to be left alone if she was going to recover, but nobody wants to be alone, right? And anyway she couldn't run around or anything too much but we'd play video games and draw and she told stories better than anyone. She never said anything about it, but my dad told me once that her dad was gone, and now mine is too, so..."

She hadn't thought it possible, but somehow Anna's heartbeat manages to pick up even more than before, like the ambulance she's in has slowed, still nowhere near its destination. She swallows; they're getting closer to their seats and the moment they arrive she knows she'll just _need _to throw her arms around this kid. The way people who lose someone dear to them grow to talk about it – not with _nonchalance_, but with this strange, detached sense of acceptance – is not something she finds herself equipped to handle.

"Miss Larsen, I think, is her name. Miss Elsa Larsen. The people at reception said they had her mother's address, but apparently she isn't there, apparently she's somewhere in Southwark. Do you think you could help me find her?"

The answer, of course, is yes.


End file.
